


a string of guiding lights

by Ghostigos



Series: when all echoes turn gold [2]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anxiety, Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Established Relationship, Gen, Hanukkah, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Puberty, References to Depression, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Snufkin spends some time with the Moomins during winter to celebrate a holiday, growing pains and minor existentialism notwithstanding.There is also much ado about latkes.
Relationships: Muminmamman | Moominmamma & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: when all echoes turn gold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707049
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	a string of guiding lights

**Author's Note:**

> ( _with bite-sized[lifeboats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxXElNVLpLk)_ — have you named the moonless world, the winter ache, the sunless tremble of you?)
> 
> it's never too early for a hanukkah fic amirite??? 
> 
> general content warning for menstrual stuff although it's not really explicit. also the TEENIEST nod to a certain someone's deadname, u could probably sneeze and skip it. this takes place approx. five years after [this bad boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944844)

Moominpappa wipes the fictitious sweat off the tip of his brow as he applies the oil with sandpaper, giving the wood a glossy finish. It's a small thing in his beastly paws, but he cradles it with the grandeur that it's something bigger than it seems. Because to you, it is.

"Success!" he announces proudly, extending it into your hold even though it still hasn't dried. "A few more layers of paste wax to prevent a hazard, of course — but it should hold up for seasons to come!"

You look at the seven-branched lampstand; there are different variations from your novels, but this appears standard. It's a bit small, made of olive branches from a grove you'd come across and you'd fancied the golden boughs. Of course you'd planned to carve it yourself, but, abhorrently, your expertise on woodwork only extends to small boats and cutlery supplies. The end result has been flung into a riverside somewhere down south.

Besides, if Moominpappa takes responsibility for the menorah then it removes discomfort from yourself, should the product end up somehow bashing the tradition entirely. You don't even know if it's important or not for non-mumriken to participate, or if this is your burden to shoulder alone.

Suppose some history could be rescripted.

Moominpappa advises the house to leave the menorah since it's still wet, and then he sets it atop his work desk with a proud arm on his hip. You stand beside him, your own paws knitted behind your back in uneasy fists.

"Thank you," you say, quietly.

He gives you a slap on the back and the fuzzy upper lip of his mouth bows upward, suggesting a grin of sorts.

-

To watch the first snowflakes drift from the grey clouds overhead in Moominhouse is...an odd thing. Your feet are drawing chickenscratch into the mahogany floorboards, your tail lashing with the urge to _Go_ , lest you want to be stuck here forever and ever.

Stir-crazy leeches at your mind like panic, the more the frost stretches in white roots across the window. Your breath clouds the glass and the land outside grows blurred and distant, and the only warmth comes from your palms encasing your mug of baneberry tea.

"If you don't loosen, you'll soon be frozen there," Moominmamma chides across the way — she's clearing out the pantry for winter, currently handling a molding jar of autumn berries. You do as you've been asked, even with her back turned.

"Y'think fish sleep during hibernation?" Lil Muff asks the kitchen from where she sits atop the counter — which she reaches now, since she's decided to grow like a corn stalk. "That'd be weird. Imagine watching a flock o'fish going downstream and they're all just asleep! Like zombies." For emphasis she wiggles her paws.

You pull away from the chilled window to say, "A _school_ of fish, more like. But no, they just slow down a bit in the cold, they don't hibernate."

Lil Muff reaches over for a bowl of butterscotch candy Moominmamma has fished out of the cabinets ("Only one before dinner, dear," she advises). She unwraps the sweet and asks, "What about frogs, then? Do _they_ sleep? Auntie My doesn't seem to sleep."

"Mymbles _can_ hibernate, but they choose not to," you answer. "They often retreat to warmer climates so they don't get the urge to, is all." Which explains Little My's recent vacation to a relatives down south.

"Like you do?" she pries. You nod.

"Mumriks are also quite the sleepy critters," Moominmamma asserts fondly, still fishing through the expired foods. "If they were to have winter cycles like the rest of us we'd never spot them again!"

You chuckle good-naturedly, then inquire out of the blue, "Have you seen Moomintroll?"

"I've been summoned," Moomintroll walks in, his build stocky with extra fur and his tail nearly as thick as Lil Muff's. They greying outdoors and low candlelight on the table makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

"Hullo dear," you smile, reaching up a tad so he can plant a chaste kiss to your nose. You gesture to the pot on the stove. "Some tea?"

"Perhaps," Moomintroll looks about the messied room, looking at his mother. "Or perhaps I should offer some assistance."

"If you could," Moominmamma calls without looking up, her snout buried in the icebox.

"I'm sure our dearest Muffin will _also_ be happy to help too, Mamma," Moomintroll says pointedly in Lil Muff's direction, her mouth tossing about her candy. She just shrugs and toys with her bangs.

"How are you?" He turns to ask.

"Well off, I think," you shrug, taking a sip of your lukewarm drink. "The bellyaches are nearly gone, so that's something."

"Oh, good." Before he departs to help his mother he presses a slower kiss to the side of your cheek, murmuring, "I'm very happy to have you here, Snufkin."

...You think you are as well. Because the internal pleas to run dissolve, becoming as misted as the world outside the window.

You haven't attempted to stay with the Moomins during winter since you were young; the itching up your spine was disastrous and like so many creepy-crawlies between the bedsheets. You hadn't attempted it since — hadn't _wanted_ to since.

The bottom of your mug is reached, and you set it in the sink to wash it later.

-

Joxter's forebodings come in mysterious ways. Common sense alludes it — a zap, a snap of fingers, a murky dream impending something vague but awful. It's not always used for doom, though, and sometimes the vivid flashes of lightning are more for just guessing proper ages and such, rather than exploding pipes or unkind strangers.

So when you tell Moomintroll that this will be your final child, you are wholeheartedly believed.

You find him splayed across your parents-in-law's bedspread, flipping through a novel: he's a mymble if you ever saw one. A shock of red hair cut from your own head, with the sort of feet your sisters will flex barefoot in ponds. A spring of antennae shoot from his widow's peak like fuzzy pipe cleaners, his face is littered with a galaxy of red spots, and he's everything you ever wanted.

He's quick to duck under furniture like a startled mouse, so you announce yourself by rapping your knuckles softly against the door. He looks up with wide green eyes behind rounded glasses, swinging his boots about. You'd be more concerned about grit staining the sheet if Mildew enjoyed the outdoors or anything grimy.

"Good evening," you greet him quietly. "What are you reading?"

Mildew blinks, then closes the book to showcase the cover: being one of Moominmamma's old cookbooks.

"Look at you, being studious!" You join him at the foot of the bed, paws finding your lap as you gaze upon him fondly. "Would you like to come downstairs? Everyone is cleaning, since we'll be up and about for the next week."

Mildew sets down his book and plots his chin into the floral-laced covers, his peachy moomin tail curling up to his knees.

"I'm sure Moominnanna will let you use her prized feather-duster," you attempt.

This gets his attention. He reaches up to grab air until you pull him into your lap, where his head rests against the crook of your neck.

"Yes, all those poor books and trinkets on the shelves, collecting dust," you sigh as sadly as you can manage, standing and adjusting your son into your hold. "I'm sure they'd be _so_ appreciative, you might find yourself with a new book to read."

Mildew kicks his boots into your ribs excitedly, and you're unfazed because he does this often.

"I'm going to be helping with dinner, so if you need help reaching any high shelves I'd ask your Pappa," you tell him.

"'Kay," he says, reaching up to tug at your whiskers.

You step into the hallway to go back downstairs; as you do you pass the closed door of your triplets' bedroom.

You pause and look at it, feeling yourself frown. The doorknob feels cold from disuse.

The Moomins (and you) say that no one is obligated to participate in the holiday if they don't want to. You were just a bit nonplussed when Snap immediately changed into nightclothes, ate their pine, and retired for winter. A simple 'goodnight' was exchanged with every family member, and that was it. You listened to their bare paws tread on every wrong floorboard as they went upstairs and closed the door.

You never want your children to be forced into routines or activities, but at the same time you can't help but feel that Snapdragon's disinterest in the festival of lights — and hibernating _early_ — is something more than it seems. Maybe this is a foreboding, too.

But before you do anything rash, or maybe don't do anything at all, Mildew squirms in your arms like a cornsnake has wriggled into his boot. So you leave your child to rest and walk on.

-

The house isn't necessarily a frenzy, but there _is_ a rhythm that's been plucked out of tune so everyone is working to refine it: you throw covers over furniture that won't be used but leave some open, you cook with perishable items, and you conserve bucketfuls of water down in the basement after the main pipes have been shut off. Some parts of Moominhouse remain alive while the rest is set to sleep, but dusting and sweeping remain a constant (which your son is ecstatic over).

A cherry-dark drawer has been taken from storage just to host the menorah — although you said that wasn't necessary the Moomins insisted that they wanted to preserve a special place to celebrate. So now the drawer and menorah sit by a window in the dining room.

Once cleaning days have past, then the first night comes. Although you've had days to prepare yourself you still feel your paws freeze up like you've stepped into cold water.

Moominpappa is the one that hands off the shammash to you, curtly lit. A lone beeswax candle rests on the verge of the antlered lampstand, and with a feeling of trepidation you light the candle. Many eyes are upon you, calculating your movements, as if you hold all the cards to this holiday's rituals — which you guess you do.

You feel a bit unprofessional when you return the shammash to its middle holder and take out a small book from your pocket, flipping to the appropriate pages. There's a blessing to be recited but you explain apologetically that your voice is not one for singing.

"Oh, that's not a problem!" Moomintroll says as you grow uncomfortable. He gestures for the book to read and you give it over.

You give a strained, reluctant look when you opine, "If I may...I did conduct a melody for the blessing, so if you'd like to—"

"Sing along with it?" Moomintroll's eyes are brighter than the candles. "How romantic!"

 _Is that okay?_ Pluckey asks from their place on the sidelines. _How do you know what to do and what not to do?_

You don't know yourself. "There's many ways that mumriken express themselves in celebration. So long as they abide by...what was it? Minhag?"

"Something like that," Moomintroll shrugs blithely.

"Yes, well, I think in the modern age it's best to accommodate to _certain_ requirements, while still maintaining the dignity of traditions," you explain. "There's a foundation to respect and follow, even when the specifics of it have been smudged with time."

"How eloquent, hon," Moomintroll remarks, a playful undertone seeping in. "A shame it's so gobby we didn't understand a word of it."

You click your tongue and as you fish around your deep pockets for your mouth organ, pulling it out. "Shut up and sing, newt."

"Fine, fine."

Your song wafts through the air as your audience, wide-eyed with intrigue, look on; you hate to admit how many hours were spent under trees perfecting this piece, as though you're conducting a tune bigger than yourself. Although the stage is a warm kitchen and your audience your loved ones, there's still the blind urge to cower when a certain note hangs too long or cracks.

Your partner, meanwhile, slurs over the words he can't pronounce — which is unfortunately many, and you admit it sounds so _weird_ on his tongue. The lyrics aren't sharpened with experiences, but his voice is still smooth like honey and there are several days for you both to grow into the song.

When you finish, because it is a short blessing, the children politely clap and 'bravo, bravo!' and your parents-in-law gazing on, proudly. Moomintroll finds it funny to bow in exaggeration, and swept up in the mood you curtsy yourself, making your partner look on with adoration so raw it's nearly scandalous.

The candles are left to shine as Moominmamma announces it time for supper; you eat matzo ball soup and popletas bursting with oil, and the table is lively with good cheer. Mildew crawls atop your lap and Moomintroll reaches for your hand and tail beneath the table.

Your eyes keep falling over to where the menorah sits, empty but glowing.

You hope it looks nice.

-

As to be expected, Moominmamma plunges her nose into all your holiday cookbooks, which you specifically retrieved for her. She's surprisingly ecstatic that so many recipes are centered around fried foods and oil, finding it a sort of challenge; she's stocked up on a hefty amount over autumn and now you see why.

She perks up from grating the potatoes when you return to the kitchen, taking a seat across from her. She looks down expectantly at the paper she'd lent you, brimming with notes.

"So you've gotten everyone's requests?" she asks you.

You nod, guiding your eyes with the pencil to read off, "Yes, Moominpappa was interested in the beet latkes," ("Of course", she comments knowingly) "Lil Muff wanted salmon in hers — I don't know if we have any good fish left so any meat will suffice. Pluckey wanted eggplant, Mildew only pointed to the basic recipe, so I assume that's his preference...oh, and Moomintroll wanted the kind with apple butter."

Moominmamma's ears flick one, twice, as she bounces the results across her head in consideration. She sets down the grater before asking, "And you?"

You blink. "And me?"

"Yes, what sort would _you_ like to try, Snufkin?"

It'd been inevitable she would ask, because she _always asks._ You still swallow and try not to avert her gaze.

"Come now, you must have _some_ dish you've been eyeing," Moominmamma presses, as softly as one might press at a bruise. 

You look over the list: there's so _many_ types of latkes is the thing, and it makes it difficult to narrow down your favorite. There's no wrong variation, but there's still that fear of misstep, of making more chores for someone else. It's easier to just be tasteless.

You just don't want to mess up.

"Snufkin," Moominmamma says. "Whatever your request is, I'll make it."

You suck in a cheek, chewing it. "That's the problem, Moominmamma."

She takes your paw from across the table. Squeezing it. "There's no wrong answer."

You think, then; reason aside you elect for impulse, which works effectively because suddenly _every_ option looks good. Damn your absurd monthly cravings. "Can I...May I try all of them, actually? One of each. I'll decide what I like, and then I'll tell you. I promise."

She nods and swiftly returns to work with a new task at paw, sweeping the list out from your hold and walking about the kitchen.

But please don't fret if you can't!" you call out in haste. "We're low on rations already, and—"

"I said I would make whatever you wanted," Moominmamma interrupts, "and I will. Don't fuss over the ingredients — Alicia is awake and I shall go get the proper herbs from her."

"But—"

"And I know a hemulen who freezes his fish at the end of autumn," she continues seamlessly, "and there's a plant witch right down the hill who has some vegetables."

You bite the tip of your tongue. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because we love you, and we want you to be comfortable," Moominmamma says it like it's obvious; rummaging for utensils she adds, "This is _your_ holiday, Snufkin. Allow yourself to celebrate it."

"Alright..." you murmur, and then nod. "Alright."

-

You're not dressed in your usual garments, since they're much too thin for the weather. Moomintroll handed off an old dress from the attic with heavy cashmere and a fabric not too sleek you'd want to pry it off your body. It's a flounce, aqua dress that reaches your ankles, lined with white lace at the hems and speckled with pale stars etched into the fabric. The smock sleeves are patterned with a rickrack trim of red and white, complimenting both the ruffled ends and red yoke, embroidered with gold diamond shapes. Your hat, too, has been changed for the season: laced with pine and snowdrops and white jasmine. Courtesy of your children and their timeless wishes to decorate your belongings.

You feel oddly dressed up, since everyone else is in light, silk clothing as though they're ready to fall asleep. But no one else is calling attention to your misplacement; maybe, like always, you're the only one that notices.

The lights still have some ways to go — three candles and two prayers thus far. But you admire the dim glow that waltzes along the glass, and you rest your head in your arms and just sit to marvel at its show. You watch the wax drip, falling to an oval blue rug that the Moomins expressed no concern in getting dirtied; this moment opts to be a silent one, as you gaze upon the menorah rather than the blizzard outside.

You chomp a bit on the leek-based latke Moominmamma had made for herself; it's not a good taste but at least there's solace in knowing you'll never have to eat it again. 

There's a set of familiar paws, softer than cotton, that slowly wrap around your mane, meeting right beneath your throat. A weight is pressed atop your head to where it squishes your hat a bit, but shouldn't disturb the wreath of flowers.

"Afternoon," Moomintroll murmurs.

You smile even though he can't see it — _especially_ that he can't see it.

"Have you an appointment, dear Moomin?" you tease, finishing off your latke.

He chuckles and it vibrates through your body like a purr. "Well, the children are playing outside with Pappa, and I believe Mamma has gone to Alicia's."

"And this means?"

"Perhaps," he drawls, "we should go upstairs, spend some time together?"

What a splendid moomin — never wastes time on unnecessary poetry.

You tip your head this time so he can see your expression when you murmur, "I'd like that."

-

Moomintroll's bed is unarguably your favorite in Moominhouse; although you rest your head on many beds scattered throughout the residence, you can't deny that this is the one you return to. Its smells and texture are familiar, and ground you during panic spells or sex. So, you rest upon it now, with no real rush to clean off or disperse. The ambiance being the wind that whines against the walls and your shared recollection of pants.

" _Puh._ " You sit up after a while to crack your joints that probably need medical treatment down the line. But you know you won't, so you writhe under these nameless aches that you're gaining more and more of.

Moomintroll flips around so he can watch you stretching, half-amused. "Oh dear, I'm sorry if I'm a bit rusty—"

"It's not _that_ ," you retort, even though he's kidding. You rise off the bed and groan, feeling thorns slip underneath your bone sockets.

You look down at your body, loosening with age; your chest hangs lower and the scars along your stomach stretch further along the skin. If you squint, there's perhaps a sprinkle of grey in your fur.

"I'm old," you say.

It isn't meant to be an insult to your part, more an observance.

Moomintroll rises from the mass of pillows behind his head and gives you an exasperated sigh. "You're old _er_ ," he corrects pointedly. "Nothing wrong with growing."

"Oh, is that right?" You face him, still pinching on the flesh hanging off your bones. "Has the role of fatherhood evened you out, Moomintroll?"

"Not particularly, no," he shrugs, half-grinning, "but growing old is something I have to accept, unless I want to be pulling on my flab."

Red-pawed you stop doing such, and instead just cross your arms as you rejoin him on the bed with a huff. You're quick to snatch up your hat from the bedpost. Moomintroll just stares at you, all of you, with the admiration he's always upheld, and it's welcoming.

"I had hoped," you sigh, "that some things would get easier with age. And the things that _were_ easy to begin with hadn't become so difficult."

"Like what?" Moomintroll props himself up with an elbow.

"Well, like smoking, or climbing up mountains, or..." You gesture about, clumsily referring to your recent charade, "Intimate activities."

Moomintroll scoffs but it's not unkind. "Well, we certainly aren't young anymore, for sure. But isn't it strange how life works?" He casts a paw to the ceiling above, as if showcasing a display: "We're just rocks smoothing over in a river, and then a tide will upturn us and we'll have to smooth over again."

You blink down at him, dumbfounded. "By the Groke, Moomin, that about rivals Dickinson."

His laugh booms around the room, and your chest lightens.

He mellows to add on, "I dunno, I think that's the fun in living! Besides, wouldn't you be disappointed if there was a great big answer out there, and you found it?"

"Hm," you bring your knees up, somber. "That _would_ be quite drab."

"Maybe it's good to just live out the questions, then," Moomin grins. "Young or otherwise, it keeps us guessing. And it means we can find the answers together."

He reaches for your paw against the sheets and holds it, thumbing at your prickled fingers. You peek at him with a glimmer of humor. "And what have we learned just now?" you ask.

"That you're just as spry as you were when we were twenty."

"Hush," you swat his paw away and turn so he doesn't see the color blossom onto your face, nor the apparent grin.

He snickers. "Best to tidy up, the children might come in and see all your oldness creeping about." He mimics a theatrical fright. "Wouldn't want to spook them."

You lovingly throw a pillow at his head and he just chortles even louder.

-

The winter _does_ slither in, eventually. The rooms become smaller; as if all the nails in the house now spike through the wallpaper and are closing in, pricking at the ends of your fur. Soon this place will squash you whole.

Lashing out is a bad example for the children, and so your turmoil withers inward like waves stuffed into a bottle, shaking viciously. It's not like you can retreat anywhere outside, with this awful weather and the snow piling all the way up to the front door. Stars, you might not even be out of here in the promised week...

You stomach is tight with pain, your lips sewn shut and your fur frazzled like you've walked across a carpet. Moomintroll must've taken the family aside to explain why you're so tetchy and tight-lipped, and so they're as obedient as they can be. There are still quarrels, yes, since the children are growing cranky from lack of sleep, but either Moomin or his parents tend to it.

You suppose you should feel guilty for being so incompetent. But your foreign fears of every laying a sour finger upon the kits leaves you to just sit and accept this outside care.

Mildew will still crawl into your lap, despite things; you're not cross when he does. He's not like his elder siblings, who'd curled themselves tighter than pill bugs. He just sits politely, his spine to your stomach, and reads his books or writes in the leather-bound journal Moominpappa gifted him (you haven't the heart to say his writing in illegible). Sometimes his heel will kick into your shin but that's about all the trouble he causes, the quiet lad.

Today he resides on the floor by your crossed legs, as you knit together a throw with white and dark blue yarn. The most you can do right now is keep your paws busy, the more candles are lit on the menorah. You idly nibble on a simple latke whilst doing so; there's no sour cream in the house to add on so you just spread apple conserve atop it, and it's _sweet_ , a bit too much so.

Moomintroll brings in a table tray holding cups of sahlab he's been brewing, setting it onto the coffee table. "Use coasters, please," he advises the children, who are gathered on the carpet. Both Lil Muff and Pluckey nod.

He turns to where you sit in your chair, doubled-over in concentration — this motif is the most complex you've done, even when the design looked simple on paper.

"Oh! What are you making, dearest?" Moomintroll asks politely.

You set down your needle into a nearby pincushion to press a finger to your lips: a surprise.

"Ah," he nods in understanding. "And how are the latkes?"

You give a frown and set down the blanket you're stitching together. _Too sweet for me,_ you sign.

Then his gaze crests into tender concern. "And, are you feeling any better?"

_About the same._

Moomintroll's expression is dampened in pity, but it vanishes before you can spring to defense. He hands off a drink and you nod your thanks, bringing the mug to your parched lips. The drink's base is similar to warm milk, but there's a tang of citrus sprinkled onto it, and a dash of cinnamon. It lends itself to the coziness of the living room, and you lean back into the chair for a minor break.

"And one for you, my precious," Moomintroll kneels at your feet to give the smallest mug to Mildew. "Be careful, it's hot."

You pat Mildew's shoulder to remind him to thank his father. "Thank you," he says over his drink, already stuffing his little face.

From the floor, Lil Muff calls attention to the game she and Pluckey are playing by flinging her pieces of gelt about in a fit. She proclaims, "You're cheating! That's why this is no fun!"

Pluckey glares her down, angrily protesting, _How could I cheat when we don't know the fucking rules??_

You cough loudly at Pluckey, cautioning them of their language, and they bitterly pout over getting caught.

"Now, now," Moomintroll crawls over to join your children, placing a steadying paw on each shoulder. "I'm sure Snufkinpappa's books have some instructions for us to follow. Perhaps if you're polite, he'll let you borrow some?"

(You scoff — that's hardly necessary; your children have taken everything you've owned, no politeness then and none needed now.)

Lil Muff slumps. "This game looks _fun_ , is all. I wish we knew what we were doing."

It's a whiff of something impulsive that has you picking your way off the chair, setting your project onto the armchair and your mug beside the plate of latkes on the stand. You walk over and try, _Perhaps if I play, I could help?_

Everyone looks at you in a way like you've sprung two heads. Moomintroll is the only one that doesn't put on a show of surprise, merely patting the spot next to him. "Oh, splendid! Teach us your ways, O Wise One."

You chuckle, seating yourself beside him. Mildew is quick to follow you, putting his drink on a bookshelf and trotting over to nestle into your lap. He picks at your dress with disinterest soon after.

There'd been an antique store off the coast, and you'd been scouring through a discounted basket when you came across your first dreidel. You threw it into your pocket immediately and marveled at it for days — it was just how it appeared in your books! You'd felt so fortunate to have ever found one at all, a _real_ one — you'd been worried that you might have to convert one of the kids' spinning tops to suffice for the holiday.

It's difficult to sign as you instruct your audience on the rules, but you can try. You point to the scattered, gold-foil gelt before explaining, _Each of us should start with about ten pieces._

Moomintroll helps you toss out the right number of gelt for each player; Mildew is offered some but he shakes his head, electing to watch on.

You continue, _Now we all place one piece into the center._

Everyone does so.

 _I'll start._ You take the dreidel and give it a good spin; all necks crane to see what it will land on. You feel a pinch of adoration about that.

The device then falls, and the symbol looks might close to the letter 'n'.

Lil Muff looks up to inquire, "So, what's that mean?"

You fingerspell the word 'halb', explaining, _That means I take half of what's in the middle_ You pluck out two pieces of gelt and place them into Mildew's trustworthy paws. Then you gesture for your daughter to go next.

She does so enthusiastically, spinning the dreidel so fiercely that it bumps into her sibling's knee, earning her a glare. Then she peers down at the result. "Um."

 _Shtel,_ you spell out. _Put a coin in the center._

"Oh!" She reaches for the right piece and flicks it into the middle. "This _is_ fun!"

Pluckey is rightfully distraught when their turn ends with nisht (nothing), but doesn't make a show of it and just gives their father the top. The room grows still with anticipation as Moomintroll twists his wrist and the dreidel spins about. He too looks excited, peering down with that childlike sparkle he's always carried with him. It's cute.

Your ears drop when you see that your husband has landed on the backwards 'L' symbol. Gimel.

"Erm, and what's this?" Moomintroll points down at the top.

You blink. _You take everything in the center._

"Oh, really?" Moomintroll exclaims happily and gladly stuffs the gelt away to his side. "Did I win, then?"

"No fair!" Lil Muff crosses her arms. "I want a rematch!"

 _Well, we're supposed to play until someone has won EVERYTHING,_ you say before your children have the chance to get upset. _So Moominpappa is winning, but he hasn't WON._

"Oh," Moomin deflates a bit, which is so mature it makes you stifle a laugh at his expression.

"Oh!" Your daughter perks up again, unruffled. "That's good! So that means it's your turn again, Papa!"

You nod and smile, taking the dreidel.

Although your voice doesn't return for the duration of the game, you still laugh when you can with your childrens' banter, and Moomintroll's innocent excitement over his winnings, and Mildew's fingers grabbing at the lace on your sleeves. The lantern by your snacks grows brighter as dinnertime fast approaches and the world outside becomes but a distant memory.

Moomintroll does end up winning.

-

There's a knock on the door that you answer with a near-mute mumble. The person on the other end hesitates before you hear them walk in anyway.

You remove the pillow you've stuffed your face into from over your eyes, blinking sorely against the daggers of light searing into your vision. You groan and reach for your hat close to the bed before you receive a proper headache.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling better, love," Moominmamma murmurs, keeping her voice low.

You groan again, but that's not a dignified response so you say, _Head hurts, too stuffy and bright._

There's a frown in her voice when she asks, "Would you like a window opened, dear? It's still snowing but—"

 _No it's alright,_ you quickly shake your head.

"Snufkin, I'm more than welcome to risk wet floors if it means you can breathe easier," Moominmamma says, a bit firm on the edges. "There is nothing worth the expense of your health."

Maybe, a while back, you would've snarled and bitten to test her endurance to you, to see if her care still reigns true and unconditional. But you know you could never do that, not again at least.

_Thank you, Mamma. I would like some air, actually._

When you attempt a gaze, her eyes are soft.

She flits open the curtains and you hiss a bit, tucking your eyes beneath your hat, and when she lifts the window a blast of cold surges in. You huddle into yourself with displeasure, but there is a portion of you pleased with the wind, the crisp outdoor air. It feels like you're atop a mountain.

You sigh in relief. 

"We'll keep the door closed, and I'll put a draft stopper on the other side so the cold doesn't blow throughout the house," Moominmamma says, wiping her paws on her apron. "And I'll go retrieve blankets so you won't freeze to death up here."

 _Thank you,_ you repeat.

"You're quite welcome, dear," She looks over with a sparkling eye. "I have a surprise for you, actually."

You tilt your head, and she goes on, "I know it's right before dinner, but I thought you could use some cheering up," her tone becomes strangely giddy. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go and get it from the kitchen."

You watch her go and twiddle your thumbs, looking at the bright and gusty world creeping in the room. You blink against the white and have to turn away, listening to the wind howl and the weather vane clacking violently overhead.

She's hardly gone for a moment before she returns with a plate carrying small, round, golden balls; with a hum she settles it atop the nightstand. Then, elatedly, she places one of the pieces — soft and warm from the oven, presumably — into your paw, with some of their white powder staining your claws. When you give it a sniff, there's an underlying scent of honey.

You look at Moominmamma, who smiles at your clear confusion. "I noticed there were some pages you'd bookmarked, so I decided to bake some of those recipes. These are bimuelos, try them won't you?"

You nearly jump to your feet in surprise. With one free paw you ask, _For me?_

"Well, for everyone of course," Moominmamma winks. "But especially you. Go on, then, give it a taste!"

It's not like you need to be told twice. You bite into the dough: puffed up with oil and incredibly airy when you sink your teeth; the honey gives it a certain sweet undertone that doesn't explode on your tongue and make you gag, but it's still rich with that flavor. You're quick to toss the whole thing in your mouth.

"Well?" Moominmamma prompts.

You answer with powdered paws, _It's delicious. I love it._

"Oh, wonderful," she smiles; she gives you another one before sweeping the plate back up to return it downstairs. "I know you wanted to try more foods that were central to your whereabouts."

 _I did,_ you feel gratitude sting behind your eyes. You bite into the next bimeulo more slowly, savoring the taste. You sign over and over again, _Thank you._

Moominmamma bows her head; when she reaches the door she calls over, "I'll be right back with peppermint tea and some blankets. If you can't join us for dinner, let me know so I can bring up a warm plate."

Your eyes burn more.

"And," she's halfway out when she asks, "which latkes did you end up liking the most?"

Swallowing back the lump in your throat, you allow yourself to reflect on it. You decide on, _The eggplant ones._

"Alright," she says, and closes the door.

-

Your voice returns on the seventh night, which is when you find yourself right outside the triplets' bedroom. You knock, even though that's unnecessary since they're sound asleep. Still, it's never good to enter a room without permission, so you knock again. Thrice, actually.

Despite having received no invitation, you take a breath and venture in.

Your eldest childrens' room was clearly meant to be a guest bedroom, evident by the awkward position of it in the house and the gaudy furniture that came with it. The walls are a dull stone-blue, colored only by drawings and comicbook pages taped to them. In the center: a blanket fort stands, constructed from old linen and pillows stuffed away in closets, serving as a nest of sorts.

There is a bed, mind, and when they were younger it could sustain them all. Now it only fits one, who's smothered beneath the patchwork comforter. The figure hardly moves, their backside only rising and falling in intervals. There's no light in the room so you rely on your dilated pupils to guide you along, assuring you don't step on any stray toys. When you reach the beside you reach in your pocket to find a match, igniting the lantern on the stand.

Snap sleeps with their back to you, their paws resting beneath the silken pillows. When you were a younger parent you'd hover over them to watch their face twitch in dreams, but here they're deathly still. Either hibernation or puberty has sombered them.

You feel intrusive already — the Moomins advised you leave them be, but of course you've never been one for rules.

You shake them until they stir, and when they blink into the light they appear more frustrated than tired. Their white pupils are dull as they register the room, bringing a paw to rub at their eyes.

"What," Snap mumbles, and it's neither a demand nor a question; it's just an obvious thing to say.

"I just came to say we're on the last nights of the festival," you say, "and if you'd like to join us, you still can."

"Mmm...kay," they rise up to their hind, their brunette, unkempt hair spilling across their features. Still clawing at their face they ask, "Why're you still here?"

(They hadn't said it to hurt you, you have to remember that.)

"I wanted to celebrate at home," you reply.

Snap just squints over at you, as though trying to even you out. Your children may not have any symptoms of a psychic, but if you had to bet any sort of money on who might form any sort of mind magick later, it'd be Snapdragon. They always cut deep, slicing out a chunk of your secrets for all to witness.

You shuffle your pads along the cold floor. "You can...talk to me about anything. You know this, don't you?"

"Why."

"Well," you look over at the nightstand — a glass of water and cold matzo soup resides, and you hadn't been the one to place them there. "I do miss you, dear. And...I _do_ worry."

"Why," Snap repeats, a tad sharper.

"It's just unlike you to sleep with your siblings still up and about," you answer carefully, "and you've just been sleeping more and more often, outside of winter, even. You don't go outside as much, and I hardly see you reading or playing with your ships or listening to your radio — and I understand you've grown _past_ some hobbies, but I also know there are just some things that make you happy. And I haven't seen you just be _happy_ in a while."

It all explodes out like a crack in a dam, and however badly you want the streamwater to quit pouring from your lips you can't. The air turns ugly with your revelations; Snap's eyes are now full-alert and they look as though they've been scolded.

You sigh, gathering yourself. "You don't have to join in anything you don't want to, but..."

You don't finish.

Snap flops back onto their pillow, gazing at their paws like there's something interesting about them.

"I wasn't trying to be harsh," you say.

"I know," they respond. The problem being that they were both blessed and cursed with an unwavering tone.

"May I get you something?" you ask suddenly. "It's downstairs, I'll have to retrieve it."

This catches them. They answer at length, "Alright."

You nearly tumble down to the first floor and enter the kitchen, finding the plate of bimuelos blanketed beneath a washcloth to keep them warm. You grab two and put them on a small dish, and then obtain a simple latke just because you hadn't gotten Snap's preference on them yet. You fetch one biscocho from the cookie jar, and a glass of milk, and then scurry back upstairs.

Snap is where you'd left them, but they've pushed their square glasses up onto their black nose, and their eyes are scrunched up from adjusting when they watch you come back in.

You place the dish of sweets and milk by the bedside, explaining, "You don't have to eat this, but I wanted to grab you some before they were gone."

Snap peers down at the plate with a striking neutrality, their position as poised as a sitting mannequin's.

"You're not doing anything wrong," you murmur, just in case. "I didn't wake you up to lecture you. I just want to make sure you're comfortable, is all."

They loosen only a hair, and their expression dips into something more doleful. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"Because I love you," you answer, plain and simple. They don't enjoy touch like their other siblings so you just offer your warmest gaze. "You don't have to feign happiness for me, and if you want me to leave you alone I'll do so. All I ask is that you come to me if there's something wrong."

They don't say anything else, their heavy stare dropping to the wrinkled covers.

You switch off the lantern, encasing the room in a wintery blue that bleeds through the curtains. "Pleasant dreams, sweet. Tomorrow will be much kinder."

They watch you with moons for eyes as you pick your way across the room and to the doorway, and you give them one last smile before clicking the door shut.

-

"I might go right to bed after tomorrow's supper," Moomintroll reports as you finish the last trimmings of your throw.

You glance up. "Oh? Why come?"

"Well, not for any real reason!" He gives the bellow in his paws one final gust into the dying hearth, which immediately sparks back to life and dips the room into an amber glow. Satisfied, Moomin sets the tool down beside the array of iron pokers; he dusts off his legs since the fireplace had spit some cinder onto them. Then he joins you on the couch, and the cushions depress under his weight.

"I just," Moomintroll ponders a bit, "know that it's time. Y'know?"

"Somewhat," you say.

"I've been fighting it, this urge to sleep," he continues. "I've just wanted to spend every moment I could with you, and the children — and I know how important this holiday is to you!"

You cease your needlework to chide, "You don't have to push yourself just to please me, Moomintroll."

"And I'm not!" he retorts, albeit light, "Because I _am_ going to bed tomorrow night."

"That's good, then. Listen to what your body needs, dear, it'll do you some good."

Moomintroll murmurs in agreement, then turns to the flickering flames; the orange dances along his fur and taints his shadows in a near-lavender.

"I'll miss you," you admit after a while.

"I know," he says softly. "I'll miss you too."

A quiet follows, and you return to your knitting, listening to the crackling of wood.

-

There might not have been a glorious feast as the occasion might have called for, but you happily make do. There's soup to finish off the last of the potatoes, and the remaining oranges are placed into the sahlab, with the kits eating the slices. Of course the table is ecstatic when Moominmamma reveals the fried donuts as dessert, and they're gone quicker than a sneeze.

Moomintroll, faithful to his word, kisses everyone goodnight and trots upstairs to rest. You play your mouth organ for a bit, the house dancing and singing along, and Moominpappa is introduced to dreidel by your children. Once the game finishes everyone eats the gelt. Then the world bids goodnight and you're left awake to pack for tomorrow's trip.

You find yourself proudly standing over the menorah, now fully cast in candelight, and chew on a spare cookie as you give your completed throw a once-over: It's white with a kaleidoscope of blue stars embedded into the white. After chipping away at seven motifs per day, it's finally large enough to cover the small desk.

You gingerly grasp the menorah's handle, praying to anyone that listens that moving it about it's blasphemous. With your other paw you smooth out the blanket over the top, and return the menorah to its rightful place.

It looks nice.

"Papa?"

Mildew tugs at your tail, dressed in his striped nightgown; he's a sneaky thing, always trailing downstairs without you raising an ear. He reaches up and flexes his little fingers.

You swiftly tuck him back into your chest, and direct him to look at the golden menorah, its candles trembling with flame. He does take a moment to marvel alongside you before he stretches his mouth open in a silent yawn.

You look down. "Oh, dear. Is someone sleepy?"

He nestles his head against the chords of your throat.

"Suppose you ought to eat your pine now," you murmur, looking about the kitchen, which is now bare until spring. "Let me see what I can gather, alright?"

Mildew nods but doesn't budge; of course you just move his body into one arm so you can venture around the cabinets.

As you're setting a red kettle on the stove, Pluckey treads downstairs; since you managed a glimpse over at their appearance they don't frighten you. "Did I wake you?" you ask them.

They shake their head; their face is pinched along the edges and their hair is askew from their thick braids. _Can't sleep, _they say, and one arm immediately locks over their abdomen, tightening their jaw like there's something sharp in their guts.__

__You frown, sympathetic. "Aches again?"_ _

__They nod._ _

__"I understand," you transfer Mildew onto the counter as you reach for the tin that the Moomins keep their spare tea leaves in. There's still a bit of crushed red berries at the bottom, so you shovel them into the strainer. "If they're like mine, they'll be gone after a few days."_ _

Pluckey still looks distraught. _Will I be able to hibernate??_

__

__"If not, you can always wake Moominpappa," you reply. "I'll leave him a note to explain what's wrong — he understands what he can."_ _

__

_But the aches WILL go away?_

__"They should." You flick the stove on after pouring water into the kettle, clicking the infuser into place. "It's just a matter of growing, my dear."_ _

They make a sour face. _I'm sick of growing._

__You laugh. _Aren't we all.__ _

____

_Fuck everything._

____

__"Use that swear again and I'll be adding some soap into your tea."_ _

____

__The kitchen is busy again; you tidy up what you can while waiting for the water to boil, Mildew finds interest in scribbling over an old fashion magazine, and Pluckey tapping their fingers rapidly against the kitchen counter to occupy themself._ _

____

__You lace their drink with pine needles and advise them to wait until it's cooled. Your eyes keep trailing to the menorah, thinking it best that after you've packed that you should likely clean it up, just in case no one is awake in the morning to extinguish the flames._ _

____

_You'll leave the tea out, won't you?_ Pluckey asks once they've downed their drink.

____

__"Of course. I'll also leave out what helps _me_ with the pains," you search about, "Let's see, where's that heating pad..."_ _

____

__As you search about the frozen house, Pluckey and Mildew follow, the former meeting your steps and the latter with a steady grip on your tail to guide him._ _

____

_Are we going to do this next winter?_ Pluckey quires.

____

"I don't know," you reply honestly.

____

You'd like to if you're able, but there was also that suffocation like being trapped in a burning house. There's a certain pain that comes with celebrations and compromise. But at the same time, you can't say you regret it.

____

You recover the painkillers and heating pad and place them on the table, writing out a note for Moomintroll as promised. Your children peek over as you work, and when you set down your pencil you scoop them up like they're both equally small, taking them upstairs.

____

_This was fun,_ Pluckey says, smiling easier as the tea's effects kick in.

____

"It was," you say, and that's that.

____

-

____

You bid your children farewell, tucking Lil Muff and Pluckey away in their cocoon of blankets and Mildew into his own bedroom. You tell them all stories of moving mountains and mumriks that travelled so far their bones became constellations. You promise to bring each of them a gift from the travels as always, and kiss them and wish them a healthy winter sleep.

____

When you retrieve the plates by Snap's bed, the bimuelos are missing, with only half a latke and cookie remaining.

____

-

____

The snow dunes sweat under the pale sun, piercing through the grey wash of clouds. Only flicks of snow trail lazily from the skies; if this weather continues, there'll be no trouble crossing the Lonely Mountains.

____

You return the dress you've been lent, folding it neatly onto the pile of laundry. Now you dress in your old clothes, wrapped in nearly three scarves and a heavy brown sweater with red chevron patterns, picked and clotted and very old. You put on the special black gloves knitted for you seasons back, the kind that don't dig into your palms and keep your claws free.

____

"Are you off?" You're surprised by the additional company; Moominmamma stands behind you in her cream gown, holding a bundle of something small wrapped in a purple cloth.

____

"I am," you keep your voice low as to not disturb the sleeping residents. "I hope you don't mind, I've already boxed away the decorations."

____

Moominmamma asks, "Where are they?"

____

"Basement, I've labelled them."

____

"Oh, wonderful," she murmurs, seeming relieved. Then she steps forward and you instinctively hold out a free paw, knowing that being stubborn won't get you out of her gifts.

____

When you unravel the cloth you find a handful bite-sized latkes — likely made last night from spare ingredients. There's a tint of purple to them.

____

"Your favorite," Moominmamma beams, casting a white paw over your gloved one.

____

You bury the warm food away, feeling her snout press to the side of your cheek.

____

"Be safe."

____

You nod, your voice thickened. "I will."

____

"Chag sameach, dear."

____

A smile perks your lips. You tip your hat. "Chag urim sameach."

____

The front door opens easier than it had before, since only soaked floors remain of the snow piles. When you step off the veranda, you see the sun. And even if it were still tucked behind the clouds, you'd still breathe.

____

**Author's Note:**

> i like to be subtle in saying snufkin is coded mizrahi-jewish and by which i mean i'm probably not subtle


End file.
